John 21:1-19; Psalm 30
Humpty Dumpty sat on the Wall,
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
All the King’s horses and all the King’s men,
Couldn’t put Humpty Dumpty together again.
But the Church can and does.
Many
of you may have noticed the cup that was placed on the communion table during
the season of Lent. It was the cup that was used for Ash Wednesday and it
played a prominent role in our Wednesday Night Reflections. As I shared with the Wednesday Night group, in
1995 I had the honor of being the Keynote speaker at a major conference at Mo
Ranch, a marvelous retreat center on the Guadalupe River in South Texas. The
cup holds significance not only because of the honor of being asked to speak,
but six months later I broke the chalice and pieced it back together. It is a
symbol of my brokenness.
But
that is only half the story. The participants at this conference were a group
of older teenagers selected from all over the Southwest United States. Usually
this conference is a time to celebrate their talents and encourage them to
consider their role in the church as they grow older. But for this one year,
the leadership team wanted to address those folks who were not invited to the
table. The idea was to challenge the best of the best to open their eyes to
those in the shadows.
When
asked to Keynote the conference, the leadership team wanted me to speak about folks
who are shy, are left out, or sat at the tables in the corners of the lunch
room. I agreed to speak but wanted the conversation to focus on folks who were
excluded because of their race and/or gender. It wasn’t the direction the team initially
desired, but they agreed to change the emphasis of the conference.
I spent six months
developing my plan and then gathered a very diverse team to make it happen. On
the opening night, I was a rock star. Everything went perfectly. Kids loved the theme mainly because the
opening act was vanilla enough to not step across any lines that might make
them uncomfortable.
But the second day we
went to work. The techniques brilliantly roped the kids into buying everything
we were offering until it was too late to back away. Then in a moment that was
both dazzling and insane, I went straight for their hearts, completely forgetting
I was asking young people to ignore 18 years of a carefully orchestrated message
delivered by both their culture and their church.
Immediately after the
session adult sponsors were threatening to load up the vans and head north. Let
me tell you when southerners threaten to head north you know things have really
gone bad. The sponsors demanded an audience and they were not in the forgiving
mood. Each person stood and spoke their mind. I listened, trying to figure how
I could regain the confidence of the group. But that train had left the station.
Then a person I barely knew, Jane Carl, the wife of minister from Dallas stood
and spoke. “What Louie did today shocked you. But it didn’t shock our kids.
They have been waiting to hear someone ask how we who are so good could be so
wrong. To go home would only confirm what we heard today.” So they stayed, and
two days later the conference was proclaimed a great success. But that is not
why I have kept the cup. It reminds me of my brokenness, and the stranger who made
whole.
I suspect all each you
has a similar story. Perhaps it was a project that was near to your heart and
suddenly crumbled. Perhaps you went too far out on a limb, or maybe you
couldn’t find the courage to go far enough. Despite how right or wrong our
intentions might have been, failure hurts. I continue to believe a critical
part of the ministry of the Church is to find folks who are broken and offer
them a way home. This is the beauty of the story we find on the seashore.
Peter had failed. It
could be argued that Peter never had a chance in the first place. No one could
imagine how Holy Week would unfold, and Peter found himself front and center.
He was beside Jesus during the parade. He laughed when Jesus overturned the
money tables. He boasted of his loyalty only to be humbled when Jesus washed
his feet. But then in the Garden things began to fall apart. He allowed Jesus
to be arrested, alone. He denied knowing Jesus, three times. He fled on Friday
and even after the resurrection hid behind closed doors. Awash with guilt,
Peter went fishing.
Was Peter retreating
to a former life, or just going back to the place he first met Jesus? I don’t
know about you but when I mess up I retrace every step over and over again. I
pray from a reboot, a mulligan, a second chance to get it right. I think to
myself, I now know what I wished I had known when I acted as if I didn’t know
anything at all. Peter goes back to what he knows best only to be hit with the cruelest
reality of all. The fish were not
biting.
Now his brokenness was
complete. Peter realized he could not fix his life alone. What happens next is
better than any comedy sketch on Saturday Night Live.
“Peter, try fishing
from the other side of the boat.” Imagine me walking up to Al Simpson as he is
casting for trout, and say, “Al, I know you think you know what you are doing,
but it seems to me your elbow might be flying out a little and there is too
much action in your wrist.”
What does Jesus know
about fishing? It didn’t matter. Peter heard the voice he had for followed
three years and without question drops the nets on the other side of the boat.
And here is the hilarious part. He catches one hundred and fifty-three fish.
Are you kidding me? Only a fisherman could tell that kind of story. Peter runs
to Jesus, pulling the nets behind him, ready to show Jesus at least he can do
something right. But Jesus has already
moved on.
Peter standing bruised
and broken could have acted as each of us has acted. He could have said,
“Jesus, what is it you want of me. I’m doing the best I can. You ask me to
believe what I cannot see. You ask me to live a way I cannot comprehend. You
ask me to be someone I cannot imagine. Take the fish. It’s all I’ve got. It’s
all I know how to do.”
Instead, Peter stood
silent, offering no excuses, waiting for Jesus to speak. We might think Peter
was looking for forgiveness, but I suspect he was hoping for an interruption to
break the loop of his reoccurring nightmares. I am certain he desired a glimmer
of light to expose his darkness. Peter was living, or perhaps more accurately,
Peter was dying in the moment before his dawn.
Some mornings before
sunrise, I will walk out on our deck and gaze at the shadowy image of Crawford
Mountain rising out of the lake. Just before dawn the blackness of the night is
only matched by the chill in the air. I suspect my faith is most vulnerable at
that moment. Yet, without fail, there emerges an intersection of death and life
when darkness succumbs to a shimmer of light on the horizon. Shadows retreat,
exposing the colors of a new day. Anxieties thaw, melting the frost within my
soul.
So
often, looking more at myself than the landscape, the words of Psalm 30 embrace
my soul.
O
God, I cried to you for help and you healed me.
My weeping may linger for the night,
But joy comes with the morning.
You have turned my mourning into
dancing,
My soul will not be silent.
I will give thanks to you forever.
Peter waits for his
mourning to be turned into dancing. He waits in anguish, broken, with nothing
left to say. It is then that Jesus speaks, “Do you love me?”
It
is the perfect question. It is our love of God that put us out on the edge of
the limb in the first place. We speak, we act, because we love. We speak, we
act, because we want the world to be better. We speak, we act, because we
believe that is where God wants us to be, and sometimes we get crushed.
Sometimes the limb breaks. Worst of all we don’t understand why our vision is
different from the person sitting right beside us. Yet despite our brokenness
we find the energy to scream, “You know I love you!”
And
God responds, “Then get back up in the tree.”
Month
or so, I mentioned a song by Guy Clark during the children’s sermon. Guy might be my favorite theologian. He is
certainly one of my favorite song writers.
Eight
years old with a flour sack cape tied all around his neck. He climbed up on the
garage he’s figurin, what the heck. Screwed his courage up so tight the whole
thing came unwound. He got a running start and bless his heart, he headed for
the ground.
(Chorus)
He’s one of those that knows that life is just a leap of faith. Spread your
arms, hold your breath and always trust your cape.
Now
he’ all grown up with a flour sack cape tied all around his dreams. He’s full
of piss and vinegar and he’s busting at the seams. So he licked his finger and
checked the wind, it’s gonna be do or die. He wasn’t scared of nothing boys, he
was pretty sure he could fly.
(Chorus)
Now
he is old and gray with a flour sack cape tied all around his head. And he is
still jumpin off the garage and will be till he’s dead. All these years the
people said, “He’s been acting like a kid.” He did not know he could not fly
and so he did.
(Chorus)
Maybe that’s what Jesus keeps saying to us, “Spread
your arms, hold your breath, and always trust your faith.”
Amen.
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